


ID:a

by xuyou_uoyux



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Could be about anyone, No real conclusion or anything, but written with changbin in mind, hopefully, ill get better at tagging, im new to this, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xuyou_uoyux/pseuds/xuyou_uoyux
Summary: when writing lyrics there are good days and bad, and changbin is stuck in a gray area.





	ID:a

A sloppy heap of clothes hunched over a raised slab of wood; fingers gripping plastic ink-tubes and scrawling black squiggles onto blank pages, like a cartographer mapping a landscape by memory; the wrist leading the hand across the page and only stopping after the flat pane of compressed-tree-pulp sagged under the weight of bleeding ink. Pressing a cap on top his messy mop of hair, he twists his head around to analyze the room: wads of graphite-charred paper and half-burned blunts spilling out from the under the trash can lid; heavy curtains blocking rays of natural light, artificial computer-light holding preference; an old vinyl disc spinning around like a ballerina, whistling notes into the air to the rhythm of tapping toes; coffee in one mug, Monster in another; a small refrigerator sitting next to the desk for convenience, filled with leftovers to last the week; wafts of smoke curling into the air, dancing and tangling between dust particles before dissipating. This writer wrote about society and heartbreak with a cup precariously perched on the edge of the desk, wrote about anything in sight or on the mind; took demands from no one, and didn’t care what fans or critics thought about it. This writer wrote whatever he pleased.

...

I wrote because I wanted to. I gripped cheap pens in tight fists while lyrics bled out of my head onto the pages and ink bled onto my fingertips. Words flowed out of my hands so quickly that I could never keep up. Ideas came and went with the frenzy of soda from a shaken can, jetting out from the openings of my fingertips, fizzling down within seconds before another soda can burst open. My mind always running in front of my hands, finishing every verse and already moving on to the next before I could even finish jotting down the melodies, all the ideas in my head presenting themselves in a black scrawling mass of ink that only I could decipher. 

I think about the old me, the younger me. A small lump sitting in front of desk that looks like an exploded Staples store: fingers gripping pens and pencils while my journals struggled to contain the flood of information and the weight of the ink. I remember one song in particular, how my fingers stuttered, stopping my subconscious train of thought so I could think about what’s been put down onto the paper: my previous experiences, what I’m thinking about, what I used to struggle with and what I still struggle with, a lingering question in my mind. What if? A catharsis. Having a part of my mind — a part of me— out there, open to judgement and editing, makes me want to go through and change everything. Make my past seem perfect, erase all the hints of struggle and make a story about a boy to whom music came naturally, whose whole life could be weaved into a perfect analogy. I can see myself laid out on the pages, across the bars: each little anecdote linked to a memory, each verse exposing an less-than-perfect piece of me little by little, drawing an incomplete-but-clear-enough image of who I am and why, leaving all the blanks open for interpretation.

Now? Now I write like Theseus, grasping for the thin string in a giant maze. I’m chasing those rare threads of inspiration, to purge myself of the distracting thoughts and to keep me grounded against Sleep’s lullaby. Not that I could fall asleep anyways. The post-it notes filled with deadlines, phone numbers, and emails kept me rooted in the studio. On bad days, despite my best efforts to wring out sentiments of youth and adventure, I had to force myself to sit in front of a blank screen for hours before I wrote three lines. On good days, the lyrics and melodies came easy, and even without an idea in my mind, the idea guided my hand by itself, writing itself out into the paper. But whenever I found myself unable to write anything more creative than “society sucks” the most I could do was sit in front of a blank screen and watch the blinking of the cursor until someone tapped on the glass to let me know it was time to go.

**Author's Note:**

> ...  
>  maybe i’ll find a way to end it well but...for now it ends kind of openly yikes (uhhh let me know if there’s an ending u want)


End file.
